He was everything I wanted – friends with everyone, rowing captain, invested in uni but not anxiously so like I was. And funny, if perhaps in the slightly mean way of eighteen-year-old boys whose jokes often fall at someone else’s expense.
I remember him asking me out after we kissed at a college party. The thrill of reporting back to my old high-school friends after each milestone. The first time we slept together; physically, maybe not world-shaking, but weighted with meaning because it was my very first time.
And yet, I don’t remember the contours of the relationship, really. The moment he first used the word ‘girlfriend’ and the times he claimed me in public became imprinted on my brain because of how often I played them over in my mind, having finally attained what I’d been yearning for. But beyond that, it’s a blur of interlaced fingers and lying nose-to-nose. Of puddles of afternoon sun, the tangle of his sheets, proudly rugging up in his college jersey to watch his regattas. Looking back, I suspect that the thrill was in the novelty and the attention. Notoriously awkward and shy all through high school, it sure was validating to be the girl on the arm of The Guy.
The spell broke at the end of first year. I remember him becoming increasingly distant and then, one evening during study week, coming around to my room, looking me dead in the eyes and announcing that he ‘just wasn’t into it anymore’. I remember feeling as if I’d been bludgeoned, bursting into a storm of hot tears as soon as he left, and suddenly understanding why heartbreak was always portrayed in films as uncontrollable sobbing in a bathtub with a bottle of Ketel One.
And then, the next morning came the circulation of the college newsletter, a weekly collection of gossip put together by the senior boys – who’s sleeping with who, who’s made an idiot of themselves, who’s thrown a printer off the laundry building in a drunken rampage. On the front page: ‘Finally the world has righted again – Adam and Shirin are officially on. He branched out from his usual fare for a while with that Newcastle chick, but now he’s done with his charity work for the year.’
I spent weeks hiding in my room. I had Paloma for support, but though she comforted me and expressed indignation on my behalf, she was quick to dismiss Adam and his friends as idiots, the slur as ‘utter bullshit’, and the newsletter as pathetic garbage that would be forgotten in a few days’ time. I had none of her conviction. I couldn’t get over the feeling that the newsletter was broadcasting what everyone already knew to be true – that I was so far out of Adam’s league, it was laughable.
As soon as my exams were done, I fled home to Newcastle, where for weeks my mum held me and my dad wordlessly brought me mugs of tea. At the end of summer, I decided it was too painful to return to college; to see Adam and Shirin and their group of friends (who were once my friends too, by extension, not that they would have suffered any crisis of loyalty). And so I moved out to a crummy sharehouse in Redfern, and then back home the year after, when my parents’ work brought them to Sydney. At the time, I told myself I’d recognise the warning signs in the future, but I wasn’t entirely sure what those warning signs were.
My second relationship was a third-year university thing. Jackson was the campus comedian; the hero of Law Revue and quickfire improv. After seeing one of his comedy gigs at the uni bar, I’d dragged Paloma along several times, hoping for a chance to talk to him in the intermission, when he and his improv buddies mingled among the audience or went to grab a beer. Paloma eventually got fed up, both with my juvenile mooning and with the improv comedy which, aside from Jackson’s witty bits, was admittedly substandard (‘Less Thank God You’re Here, more Please God Make It Stop,’ she’d grumbled). One evening, during interval, she’d marched us up to the bar where Jackson was flagging down a drink and squeezed in beside him. She’d tapped him on the shoulder and asked bluntly whether he could get us free drinks to make the show more bearable. When he cracked a smile and offered to buy us consolation drinks, she excused herself and pushed me forward. Flustered, I apologised for Paloma but accepted the drink. By the end of the interval, we’d exchanged numbers.
I was attracted to him, lionised him, for his wit and confidence. Dating him was exciting – I never knew where he’d take me, or what we’d end up doing with his group of kooky friends (eating hand-pulled noodles in Haymarket, visiting an abandoned tuberculosis sanatorium, getting drunk at a bowling bar). But though we went out for close to a year, there was something suspended about the relationship. Flaky as pastry, it wasn’t that Jackson was short of affection or interest when we were together, but I’d often lose him for days to whatever set or show he was working on, despite any plans we’d made. It unsettled me, but I couldn’t help myself – I was entranced by this fascinatingly funny guy. Until it ended, when he got a TV writing gig at the ABC and I was lopped from his life like a dead branch.
I roll over and bury my face in my pillow. It’s clear in retrospect that I made the same mistake with Jackson as with Adam. In both cases, I’d been dazzled by their wit, charisma, easy nonchalance and good looks, and had put all my stock in chemistry. I’d ignored the things that eventually tanked the relationships – Adam’s arrogance, and the fact that I was not nearly cool enough for him; Jackson’s self-absorption, and the disconnect between his erratic and my methodical ways.
So, the three traits I should look for. I roll back over and hoist myself to a sitting position. Marisa’s advice to the woman with a string of DJ ex-boyfriends had struck me as pertinent. Marisa had gone on to explain that a ‘novelty-seeking’ personality, which is a combination of high extroversion, high openness and low conscientiousness, makes for a fun and spontaneous partner in the early days of a relationship, but also someone who is more likely to get bored, and cheat or move on because they feel that the relationship has ‘lost its spark’. I don’t think I could bear a repeat of the situation with Adam or Jackson and so, I think, it makes sense to choose ‘low novelty-seeking’ as trait number one.
As for the second trait, Marisa explained that the personality trait best associated with a happy long-term relationship is emotional stability. Neurotic people tend to react negatively and more intensely to their circumstances (they are, for example, more likely to quit their job if they have a terrible day at work), making for more turbulent relationships and putting them at a higher risk of divorce. Trait two, then: emotionally stable.
And finally, of all the other traits we discussed, agreeableness stands out to me as something I should add to the list. ‘Alongside emotional stability, agreeableness is one of the best predictors of a long-lasting happy relationship,’ Marisa had said. ‘No-one likes being cast as the “nice guy” or “nice girl” – and in all my time running these courses, I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone say it’s what they’re looking for in a partner – but warmth and responsiveness is so important. Nice people are kinder, better at intimacy, and more likely to be attentive in the bedroom.’ I’d thought about Adam, with his snide jokes, and Jackson, saying ‘Yes, and –’ every night on stage, but rarely to me. And my parents (banishing any thought of their intimate life); my mum choosing my dad because ‘he seemed like a nice person’. I close my eyes and sink down onto my pillow, feeling like I’ve started to figure it out. Trait three: agreeableness.
7
I’m just biting into a chicken salad sandwich on my lunchbreak the next day when my phone buzzes with a new message.
‘Who’s that?’ Paloma asks perfunctorily as I choke on my half-defrosted Helga’s and swipe open my phone.
‘James,’ I say. ‘From Quinn’s housewarming.’ Paloma starts to crow.
‘Not anything like that,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘He’s just asking me to a gallery opening in Newtown with him and his housemate tomorrow. Which I’d actually be keen for, since you two are allergic to culture.’ I scan to the end of the message. ‘Late arvo though, I couldn’t make it anyway. Graeme’s got me in a 5 pm conference.’
‘You can still do dinner tomorrow, though, right?’ asks Cameron.
&nbs
p; ‘Yep, Graeme’s going to a CPD seminar at seven, so I’m in the clear.’
‘You should ask James and his housemate to join us,’ Paloma suggests. ‘If they’re in the area anyway.’
I can’t think of any reason not to. I shrug. ‘Okay, maybe I will.’
The next evening, we congregate for drinks and dinner at a wine bar on Enmore Road. Paloma and Cameron are in fine form, in the way of working adults who have decided that Thursday is basically the weekend. Louis is slightly sullen but, this being his usual demeanour, we don’t allow it to dampen the mood. Having moved to Australia from Paris five years ago, Louis has yet to shake his air of dissatisfaction with Sydney – the culture, weather, food, people, ubiquitous gyms and ban on public smoking.
I’m particularly excited to see Mara, a friend from the English classes I took as part of my combined Arts/Law degree, who also happens to be an old schoolfriend of Paloma’s. A striking girl with eyes so bright, lips so naturally red and skin so translucent that back in the day men would have assumed she had consumption – and wanted to court her anyway – Mara went on to study drama when I moved on to full-time law classes, and remains an aspiring actress, with a day job as a social media manager for a luxury furniture store. She and Paloma have a loving but fractious relationship – the strange dynamic of once inseparable schoolfriends whose interests and paths have diverged – and I often find myself playing buffer in our little trio.
Last to arrive are James and his housemate Miles, a well-groomed finance guy who on first impression seems like a bit of a lad. Miles and Cameron immediately recognise each other from their North Shore school days, which they honour with an awkward fist-bump-handshake hybrid. And though he doesn’t react when introduced to James, Cameron turns to me as soon as we sit down, eyes wide. ‘I’ve totally seen him before,’ he hisses under his breath. ‘You remember my old housemate Elly? Yeah, well, they had a one-night stand, and I bumped into him when he was sneaking out the next morning.’
I raise my eyebrows back at him. ‘Really? What, he just ghosted?’
He shrugs back at me. ‘Yeah, I don’t know the details, but seems that way. Elly was hung up on him for weeks but I don’t think they saw each other again.’
Perturbed, I file this anecdote away.
After we’ve made some uneducated wine selections and ordered share plates of baby octopus, beef cheeks, seared tuna and confit vegetables, Mara turns to me and says, ‘So Cam and Paloma tell me you’ve been dating a lot?’
I feel my cheeks prickle as attention turns to me, but try to appear nonchalant. ‘I wouldn’t say a lot. Just a few dates. Which, you know, is a few more than usual.’
‘She’s finally cottoned on to Tinder,’ Paloma explains, smirking. ‘Only a few years behind the rest of the world.’
‘How were they?’ Mara asks. ‘The dates?’
‘Hmm . . . Marry, Kill, Fuck,’ I reel off, trying to keep it light. It’s actually difficult to decide who I’d elect to kill out of Tom and last night’s date, Ed, who commented that we should ‘rate people out of a hundred, not ten, because it’s more accurate’ and then proceeded to deem me a ‘solid seventy, could be an eighty if you styled your hair’.
‘All hypothetical?’ asks Paloma innocently.
I narrow my eyes at her, knowing exactly what she’s getting at. ‘Yes, Paloma, all hypothetical. I didn’t actually marry the accountant or murder that investment banker . . . or sleep with any of them.’ I feel myself blush.
‘You are such a prude,’ Paloma says, bemusement mixing with affection. ‘So much for women’s rights activists clearing the way for our sexual freedom. Just because they don’t fit with the long-term plan doesn’t mean you can’t get with any of these guys.’
‘You know I can’t do one-night stands. I’m too scared of getting murdered. Or a poor night’s sleep.’
‘So why have there been no second dates?’ Mara asks. ‘I would’ve thought you’d have a good conversion rate. Well, unless you started talking about work. Or your reality TV schedule. I think most people would find your obsession with MTV Catfish and Love Island a bit alarming.’
‘None of them have been that compelling,’ I shrug. ‘When I say “marry”, I mean “maybe I’d settle for you when my ovaries start to look like end-of-season passionfruit, because you seem like you’d be good at stacking the dishes. But by god I don’t want to hook up with you now. Or converse with you either.” And by “fuck” I also mean “dumb as fuck”.’
We marinate in silence for a few moments. There’s a palpable sense of sympathy emanating from Cameron and Mara’s end of the table, mingling with derision from Miles (the sneer and curled lips are a bit of a giveaway). James, working away at his plate of beef cheeks and confit carrots, is a closed book. Louis, naturally, exudes ennui. He simply calls for another bottle of wine with a lazy flick of his hand.
Mara eventually cuts through the silence with a brave segue. ‘Speaking of new projects, did I tell you I’m starting a business?’
‘Really?’ says Miles, with interest.
I’m grateful for the change of topic, but struggle to muster much enthusiasm. Mara is constantly chasing new ventures and working on anything besides her thespianism; every time we see her there is some embryonic, unlikely-to-be-realised business idea. Last month it was an ombre hair-dying service; the month before that, a rosewater facial mist.
‘Bespoke wrapping paper!’ she enthuses. ‘I’ve found a wholesale distributor of plain papers so now I’ll finally be able to put my calligraphy and potato-printing skills to use.’
I tuck a thick slice of tuna into my mouth to avoid commenting. I sneak a look at Paloma, who is the picture of confusion. ‘Potato printing?’ she mouths at me.
Miles is baffled by the idea of anyone wrapping anything. ‘No-one really gives presents these days, do they? Much less wraps them.’
Louis pipes up. ‘Gifts for adults – liqueur, flowers, chocolates – not necessary to wrap. Perhaps to package gifts for children?’ He says the word ‘children’ with slight disgust, as if imagining snotty noses and grabby, paste-covered hands.
Miles starts grilling Mara about the economic sense of the venture. The words ‘negligible profit margin’, ‘commercially unviable’ and ‘ludicrous’ cut through the air.
I can see Mara getting upset as Miles hounds her, the heat rising in her cheeks and her mouth pinching.
‘I think it’s a cool idea, Mara,’ James says, gripping Miles’s shoulder as if to physically rein him in, and diplomatically smoothing over the mounting tension. ‘It’s good to make things, for sure.’ He starts to tell her about his friend Chris’s foray into the smoked meat market; how he got fed up with his corporate job and started smoking salami and prosciutto in his backyard, experimenting with different woodchips and tea flavours, and then moved on to selling the meats at weekend markets. ‘He’s doing pretty well so far; he’s started making some connections with different delis and cafés around town. If it keeps going this well, he’s going to quit his day job and go for it full time.’
With Mara placated, the table lapses into separate conversations. I overhear James giving Mara the names of some people he knows with a screen-printing studio, and out of the corner of my eye I see her beaming, face turned up towards him like a sunflower facing the sun.
‘It’s good to have another artist in the group,’ I hear her say. ‘Usually it’s just me and these Pinstriped Prisoners.’ She gestures dismissively at the rest of the table.
When all the food and wine is mopped up, and the bill has been settled by a few of us tossing in our cards and the others making faint promises to transfer their share, we file out of the bar and huddle on Enmore Road to plot our next move. The others are keen to head to The Scrooge, a nearby bar where James and Miles’s friend has an open mic set later in the night. Not quite able to shake the looming dread of a Friday at work (which will involve an early start to prepare for a 9 am directions hearing), I’m anxious to get home and fall aslee
p to a Friends re-run.
‘Guys, I’ve got to be in at work early tomorrow for a court hearing. I think I’m going to head off.’
‘Hang on,’ says Mara, peering at her phone. ‘Angus just texted – he’s finishing up at the restaurant, so I’m going to go and meet him.’ Angus is her long-time boyfriend, and a sous chef at a hip modern Australian restaurant at The Rocks. She turns to me. ‘We can walk to Newtown Station together?’
‘You girls will be okay, then,’ says Miles. There’s not quite enough inflection to make it a question; he’s clearly hoping that we won’t derail his evening plans.
‘Yep, we’re good,’ I assure the group. ‘It’s such a short walk. We’ll catch you guys later.’
James breaks the circle we’re in, sidestepping around to where Mara and I are standing. ‘Nice to meet you Mara,’ he says, kissing her on the cheek.
‘Good luck in court tomorrow,’ he says to me, just as an elderly couple walk past. They look askance at us (clearly imagining the worst – me being hauled off by a court bailiff) and hasten their step. James and I dissolve into a chuckle as he pecks my cheek, and I think perhaps I should have worn a smarter jacket.
Mara and I amble down Enmore Road, recapping the evening. ‘Miles is a bit of a dick, don’t you think?’ Mara says. I prevaricate, and muse aloud that perhaps his brashness is a product of his work environment. ‘I imagine it’s very highly charged, alpha-male, dog-eat-dog . . .’
Mara cuts off my pussyfooting with a glare.
I cave quickly. ‘Well, yeah, he does seem like a bit of a dick. There was no need for him to rip into you about your business idea.’
‘James seems lovely, though,’ she says slyly.
‘Yeah, he seems like a fun guy.’
Love, in Theory Page 7
